


You (Really) Got Me

by bobaheadshark



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Banter, Ben and Rey have scars, Card Games, Drinking, F/M, Man from UNCLE ish?, Mention of hypothetical baby at end, Mutual Masturbation, Negotiating Consent, No Pregnancy, One Shot, Oral Sex, Passing reference to era-appropriate racism and sexism, People die (but not our main four), Physical ones but maybe emotional ones too (all aboard the emotionally damaged spies ship), Rey is on the Pill, Slight Dark Spy Stuff, Smoking, Snarky Spies, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, dark humour, implied that Rey disassociates during sex in her spy work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24840646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobaheadshark/pseuds/bobaheadshark
Summary: “Stop trying to help me.” Rey said.“Stop almost fucking dying, then.” Ben replied.“You’re one to talk, Mister Nine Lives.”“Yes, I’d know, since you’ve made attempts on about five of them.”----The 1960s. Four spies are blowing off steam over card games in Italy, having failed to complete their latest mission. Two of those agents are Rey Sanders and Ben Solo. What could go wrong?AKA hey here’s a kinda-sorta Man From UNCLE x Reylo oneshot#reylojukebox song prompt:You Really Got Me, by The Kinks.
Relationships: Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 39
Kudos: 219
Collections: Reylo Jukebox Exchange





	You (Really) Got Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reywritethestar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reywritethestar/gifts).



> Hi Bea, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to my trusty @lepak for the encouragement and speedy beta.

* * *

_Rome, 1964._

“So I told him: the only way you’re getting to that computer is if you make it...past _me_.” 

Finn’s face is deadly serious, but Rey’s worked with him enough to know when he’s hitting a high point of his storytelling arc. And this isn’t it. So she checks her cards, puts them face down on the table, and waits. 

“And you know what he says? He yanks his cape off and says to me: ‘Congratulations, Agent Storm. You’ve passed.’’’ 

Rey can read three very different expressions around the table as they process this. Finn looks rather pleased with himself. Rose, incredulous. Ben Solo is somewhere between bemusement and his usual expression of lukewarm disdain. 

Rose speaks up first. “You’re lying! Luke Skywalker himself did not show up just for your training exercise. That guy never leaves Cape Ahchtoo.” 

Rey likes Rose. They haven’t worked together much before Rome, but a week ago they had crammed into the same too-small taxi from the airport on the way to the hotel, and bonded immediately over Katherine Johnson’s work at NASA. Tonight, Rose is the picture of grace: her silk Cheongsam glimmers a burnt orange, and the simple silver clips in her hair glow from the overhead lights. 

The overall effect is delicate, but Rey knows better than to be fooled. The man who’d been stupid enough to try jumping them earlier was probably still gathering his wits somewhere in a street gutter. That incident was also how Rey had found out that Rose, the otherwise unassuming stenographer, knew seven ways to incapacitate someone – two of which were most definitely illegal, and three of which she demonstrated on said man, as Rey held on to both of their gelatos. 

“Idiot, going for my purse.” Rose said, as she dusted off her hands. “These clips are Hai Shan smelt.” 

Rey had grinned at that, and passed Rose back her pistachio cone before continuing their walk in the afternoon sun. 

_So this flower_ , Rey knows, _can bite_. 

But just for tonight, Rey thinks, all bets are off, and all fun is in. 

She looks back down at her cards. If she plays it right, she’s about two away from a flush. Not quite in the Royal sense, because Rose has taught them a corrupted version of the game she learned from her hometown of Kowloon City. But it’s close enough and structured a bit like conventional poker – and most importantly, all four of them can play. 

All Rey needs is a King, and that blasted Ace of Spades. The one useful thing Plutt did do in his otherwise negligible custodianship was to teach Rey how to count cards – so she knows exactly who’s holding onto it.

The man in question sits opposite her, separated by an expanse of green felt and a history of prior meetings that both would rather forget. She’s only looked at him when she’s absolutely needed to – like when he’s reaching out to curl his fingers around a new card, or when he drums a rhythm on the edge of the table when the game gets too slow. His posture is loose and lackadaisical, but she knows he’s watching the play like a hawk. 

She knows, because she’s felt that gaze locked onto her like a missile, even if she refuses to acknowledge it. 

It’s the same look that he gave her on the S.S. Finaliser two days ago, after one of Snoke’s men had the audacity to try and lop her head off with an axe. If she were totally honest with herself, the situation was not _out_ of control, the second henchman had just rattled her with that badly-aimed shot. 

Dying, really, was an occupational hazard in her line of work. An idea Rey was used to. It’s just inconvenient when a knife gets embedded in the neck of your opponent when you’re still trying to grab at their axe, and the person who’d thrown said knife was none other than Ben Solo: sworn enemy, confirmed American-to-Soviet-to-mercenary turncoat.

“I was working on it!” She’d shouted above the wailing alarms.

“It didn’t look like it.” He’d said, as he jogged closer.

He stood next to her at the command station, close enough that she felt the heat radiating from him through his three-piece suit.

“Stop trying to help me.” She said.

“Stop almost fucking dying, then.”

“You’re one to talk, Mister Nine Lives.”

“Yes, I’d know, since you’ve made attempts on about five of them.”

She looks up from the console. 

“Did you just pay me a _compliment_ , Solo?”

That was when she saw it. Just for a split second. The softness in his eyes, the flash of something far too close to affection. 

It frightened her more than anything. It was the kind of weakness that in their line of work could get them both killed. 

She didn’t have a chance to dwell on it, though, because Finn and Rose burst into the room to say that Phasma was bringing more troops. They had beat a hasty retreat. 

The mission in short, had been a catastrophic failure. But Rey supposes there is no precedent for four of the world’s best agents working on a covert operation in the middle of a Cold War.

General Organa was disappointed, though she had tried to hide it on the phone. An even-levelled “well done” across a secure line was a consolation, really, for how much of a shambles this would be to explain to the Committee. The four of them had obviously botched the job, and were now trying to hide it by playing cards in a basement while awaiting further instructions. 

After the phone call, a small and awful part of Rey also wondered how the Committee would react if they knew that Solo had wasted precious seconds on her attacker, instead of focusing on the blueprints.

The worst part is, she knows what she would have done if their positions were reversed. And the thought dwells, unwelcome in her mind, as the night stretches on.

##

An hour and a half later, Rey is considerably more relaxed, thanks to the social lubrication provided by the innkeeper’s finest _Isola dei Corellia_. The room’s full of smoke and mirth: Finn’s wound his striped tie around his head, and Solo’s shucked his jacket. Rey’s procured a cigar, and Rose is teaching her to taste the smoke and not inhale it. 

Rey doesn’t miss the way Solo’s mouth goes slightly ajar whenever she takes a puff. And perhaps she no longer cares. She tightens her thumb and index fingers around the stem of the cigar and resolves to give him something to look at. The next puff she takes is extra lengthy, and it burns. But it’s worth it just to watch him gape.

The card game is on pause for an intermission of “never have I ever”, and Rose is on top form.

“I had to drink on that last one, because technically, I almost blew my cover ‘cus the outdated insult was in my _sixth_ language, not my fourth.” Rose says.

“Sixth?! Tico, that’s just obnoxious.” Finn says.

“It’s not my fault that Hokkien and Teochew both have really expressive swear words. Besides, that ginger-headed fink didn’t know the difference.” 

“Right on.” Finn says. He then slams his hand on the table to signal a new round. “Alright, your turn, Solo.” 

Solo crosses his arms and seems deep in thought for a moment. 

“Never have I ever…” he says, looking left to where Finn’s balanced precariously on the back legs of his chair, “gone on a mission dressed like a Macy’s Christmas display.” 

Finn guffaws, and Rose snorts. Rey thinks it’s a slightly unfair accusation, considering that Solo himself is a walking billboard for Italian suiting, with shirt buttons that strain in a way that are – frankly – indecent for a man. But he does also have a point, given that Finn regularly pushes the bounds of acceptable Field fashion with his Ray Bans and relentless commitment to brights. 

At any rate, Finn always gets the last word. “Now, brother, that’s unfair. Just because some of us don’t have an undying allegiance to the colour charcoal doesn’t mean I’m a Christmas ornament.” Finn spins a card on the table. “Besides, I’m no holiday jell-o. I’m always the full meal, baby.”

Rose high-fives him, and Rey smiles into her drink. Finn told her once that “people stare on account of my skin anyway, so why not give them something to really look at?” 

She can see the logic in this, even if it’s the inverse of what she would do. She’s survived by blending in, but if his calculation was to turn that spotlight to his own advantage, then who is she to judge?

Besides, she shouldn’t be surprised at the boys’ bravado tonight. It’s the least they can all do if they’re going to be sent back in to die tomorrow. 

She tosses her drink back, feeling the whiskey settle into her gut before she gets ready to ask the next question. 

“Wait, before you do. I have to say. I miss Maz’s meatloaf, some.” Finn sighs.

“It’s supposed to be ‘never have I ever’!” Rose declares.

“I know, but hers was the best. She makes the only meatloaf at HQ that I can get behind.” Finn says.

Now Rey’s confused. “What on earth is meatloaf?”

“Whaddya think it is, Darjeeling?” Finn responds.

That nickname. If she didn’t like Finn so much, it would have been a problem. He’s called her that since they were introduced on the first day, and it’s stuck. 

“If I were to hazard a guess?” Rey continues. “Meat. That’s been fashioned into a loaf.”

Solo’s idly shuffling a deck of cards. But she sees that the corners of his mouth are turning upwards, into a shape that some civilisations might even call a smile. 

“And the stadium! Cheers! For Agent Sanders!” Finn waves his arms and does a little dance in his seat. His expression goes deathly serious before he continues. 

“I don’t suppose Solo here’s ever had it, being a fancy son of a gun.” 

Three pairs of eyes at the poker table swivel in Solo’s direction, and the smile on his face is gone – replaced with a carefully neutral expression. 

“Meatloaf is best prepared pre-browned in a sizzling hot pan, seasoned with a dash of cumin, before baked at 345.” he mutters in a low voice. 

“Aha!” Finn shouts. “We’ll make a common man out of you yet!”

“Something your father taught you?” Rey says. She knows mentioning his father is a verbal dagger, but when she sees a chink in Solo’s perfectly-constructed armour, she can’t help but dig her fingers in. Maybe it’s the whiskey that’s made her feel reckless, or maybe she’s keyed up because of what happened on the _Finaliser_. 

She’s not entirely sure what her new game with Solo is, but she knows it is dangerous. 

At any rate, Agent Solo tenses his shoulders almost imperceptibly before he shrugs.

“Sanders, you’re up.” 

“Fine. I’ve got one. Never had to punch my way out of a situation.” Rey says.

Rose nods and makes a _hear, hear_ gesture. The men’s heads ping pong between the two women’s faces in disbelief.

“What is it that you do, then?” says Ben. 

“Please. There are less taxing ways of getting what you need out of a mark. You just need to use a little...imagination.” Rey says. She reaches for the bottle and watches the line of liquid rise inside the glass.

“Oh, I’m aware. It just doesn’t always work.”

“Well in that case, you’ve not _seen_ me work.” Rey says. 

The squeaking of the metal fan in the room suddenly sounds extremely loud. And Rey’s acutely aware of just how much _she_ would like to be the subject of Ben’s intimate work, even though she knows that none of it is real. But the idea of it is enough to send her pulse racing, and heat pooling between her thighs. 

It’s bloody inconvenient, is what that is.

“To be honest, I just use the smoulder.” Rose says. “Try it sometime!"

“She’s right.” Rey adds, grateful for a diversion. “Everyone’s got a smoulder.” 

“C’mon Finn, let’s see yours.” Rose says.

Finn flicks his arms like he’s about to perform the world’s most elaborate magic trick. Then, he rubs his hands together, leans forward and…

Frowns. 

Rey almost spits out her drink. It is possibly the worst thing she’s ever seen, and she had to drown a man in a vat of chocolate in Zurich just last month. To Rey’s left, Rose erupts into the most unladylike cackle she’s ever heard, and even Ben makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, which he quickly tries to cover by coughing. 

“That is… something.” Ben says, diplomatically.

“You look like a stunned duck.” Rey says. 

Finn looks affronted. “The Coruscanti mobster’s wife ate it up. And her male friend, too.”

Ben shrugs. “I’ll take your word for it. It’s not something they really covered in the places I trained.”

Rey knows all about the places he’s trained, and they are no respectable establishments. So she finds her opening while Rose is dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and pushes.

“No, I don’t suppose you had time in-between the raiding and killing to learn many of those skills.”

The room stills. Rey could hear a pin drop. She doesn’t care.

Ben snaps his focus towards her. It feels like she’s staring into the highbeam of a car, for how badly he’s disguising his anger now.

Good. 

“If I had a dime for a person each of us has killed, we could fill a Treasury. Don’t bother staking the moral high-ground, Sanders. All you’ll get are diminishing returns.” Ben says.

All four of them drink again, and the mood is suddenly somber.

“Speaking of moral high-ground, I know Langley only sent me here because they didn’t want to waste anybody else.” Finn says. Rey knows this, but her heart still breaks for him.

“Oh and me. The Hong Kong Office only put me on that plane because they had a deal with Organa. But after this, they’re never going to let me ten feet near the field, because they think women like me should be serving tea or behind a desk instead.” Rose shrugs like it’s a fate she’s accepted. But there’s resolve corded through her voice which suggests that she isn’t just about to lie down and take it. 

It’s exactly why Rey admires Agent Tico.

“And how about you, Rey? Have you ever questioned why you were doing this?” Rose asks, stirring her drink.

 _And how about that, indeed, Rey_? She asks herself. She thinks of Hackney, and the friends she left behind. Of pitch-dark rooms and too-bright hallways, of being woken in the middle of the night for meaningless exercises. Of gunfire and dossiers, and the overfamiliar men who constantly underestimate her. She thinks of her first flight and her first kiss, both memories she can’t forget, because they’re from the same night she learned to scrub blood off her hands over a bathroom sink in Marrakesh. She thinks of the three agents at the table, and the price they each pay, to keep the world spinning on its axis while the rest of the world sleeps in their beds. 

She knows all this, but she will never say it.

“I mean, the money’s pretty good.” She shrugs.

Finn and Rose look like they want to say more, but Rey cuts them off before they can begin. 

“ _Et tu_ , Solo?” Rey adds. “By all accounts you grew up wanting nothing. Family business too boring for you?”

“Leia’s height is better suited for the doorways of DC.” Solo deflects, without looking at her. “Besides, the company’s better here.” 

Finn and Rose look very curious at whatever is going on between Sanders and Solo. But they’re all interrupted by the clock chiming one, which reminds them they still have missions to complete after this is over. 

“Well, my friends, this has been a wonderful evening, but all work and all play makes a grown man tired, so on that note, I bid you adieu.” Finn’s chair scrapes on the floor as he stands up. Solo stands up too, because this is the odd sort of anachronistic chivalry that he still subscribes to. _Twenty years behind_ , Rey thinks. Just like him. 

“Me too, actually. Ackbar will be up, and I owe him a list of names from the Otomosk case.” 

There’s a waft of lily and black pepper in Rey’s nose as the two Agents sidle past her on the way out. She doesn’t miss the conspiratorial look that passes between them, right before they reach the door.

“You’ll be fine, yeah, Sanders?” Finn asks. His tone is casual, but he’s concerned. It makes her feel oddly reassured, and it’s been so long since anyone cared. 

“I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Finn.”

“And g’night, Agent Big Ben.” Rose chirps as she disappears out the door with a hiccup and an exaggerated wink at them both. Solo looks confused, and shakes his head.

Rose plays it off like she’s inebriated, but when Rey gets up to shut the door behind the departing duo, she sneaks a peek down the hallway. Agent Tico walks arm-in-arm with Finn in a razor-straight line. 

Rey sighs. Agents. And their games. 

And then she’s left with the only puzzle in the world she can’t quite figure out.

  
##  
  


The room feels strangely small, now that it’s just the two of them. Solo’s still standing at the opposite side of the poker table with his hands in his pockets. He’s a towering physical presence, and now that she’s not got Storm and Tico there to divert her attentions, she realises just what a study in contradictions he really is: that byzantine nose and the Dumbo ears, the corded muscle in his forearms and the silk in his voice, his hugeness that she associates with the pinpoint _pop_ of his silencer, which he wields with such ferocity. 

She wonders if he knows that she thinks of him more than she should. That at night, desperate for relief, she pictures him whispering words in her ear: lover’s words, awful words. Words that make her clench around her fingers until she’s gasping his name. 

She would blush if she believed in being embarrassed. Instead, she leans against the door, crosses her arms, and returns his gaze instead.

“You need a teacher.” She blurts out.

“What?”

“You said you don’t know seduction tactics, correct? So you need a teacher. Show me what you’ve got.”

“No, Sanders.”

“Come on, don’t be a dullard.” She takes a few steps closer to his side of the table, where he’s still standing. 

“No.”

“Why not. I’ll show you.”

She closes the distance between them in a few strides, leans one hand on the edge of the table, and changes her posture. It’s slight, but it’s the way she carries herself – the way she shifts her weight to one hip, the flutter of eyelashes, the careful enunciation at the end of her “hello” – and the effect on him is instantaneous. He almost takes a step back before he stops himself, and she says with the best coyness she can muster:

“Is that a gun in your trousers, Solo, or are you just happy to see me?”

He won’t meet her eyes. 

“Do you use that line all the time?”

“You aren’t _ready_ for the lines I use all the time.” 

He laughs at that, reaching to take another sip of his drink. But she’s not done, and there’s a question she’s been dying to ask all night, that’s been buzzing around her head like static that she can’t tune out. She thinks of the times they’ve crossed paths in bars, ballrooms, and boudoirs around the globe and the chances that they’ve had, and she wants to know.

“Solo, why haven’t you killed me yet?” 

He looks at her then. Really looks at her. And she sees the conflict there, on his Guernican portrait of a face – all planes and ridges that she has no navigator’s map for. This is unknown territory, but she _has_ to know. 

“Hm. Maybe I'm a bad shot.”

She rolls her eyes. “Like you’ve ever missed. Be honest with me, for once. Why?”

He sighs. “You’ve had the opportunity too, Sanders. Remember Belgrade?”

Of course she remembers Belgrade. It’s where he got the scar, the one that bisects a quarter of his face, straight through his right eye. She knows, because she was the one who gave it to him.

“I thought we agreed never to talk about Belgrade,” she says.

“You started it.”

It isn’t just Belgrade, either. There was East Berlin. Nairobi. Calcutta, and Singapore. On her last count, the scoreboard between them was exactly even. And before they had been forced to work together, it had been a fiasco explaining to the higher ups at Century House why she had let him walk away alive, every time. She can’t even imagine the amount of hoops he’d had to jump through on his side in Moscow.

“It wouldn’t be very fun if there was no one on the field who could match me.” Solo adds.

“Finn and Rose have stellar track records. And are perfectly good agents.”

She expects a rebuttal, but there isn’t one. And Agent Sanders finds that actually this once, she doesn’t want to play any more games. She is tired. Tired of dancing around the reality of the situation, which is that outside of these four walls, their governments consider them to be two rooks on opposite sides of a chessboard, destined to run in parallel lines until one of them eliminates the other. 

But standing here, next to him, the part of her heart – the tiniest part of it that she hasn’t given under lock and key to duty and the State – can’t help but want to reach out to him. She wants to know him, even if he’s double and triple-crossed the Committee and his own family so many times that she’s already lost count.

For now, he’s just here. In front of her. Calm, except for the sharp inhale through his nose and the twitch in his left eye.

It’s his tell.

“Yeah. Storm and Tico are great agents.” He murmurs, voice like velvet. His eyes flit across her face like he wants to drink her all in, and Rey can feel her traitorous pulse hammering in her chest. 

“But there’s one big problem, Sanders.” He reaches one hand up to cup her face.

“And what’s that?”

“They aren’t you.”

Then she does the only thing she can think of. She leans in and kisses him.

  
##  
  


When he takes her, it isn’t gentle. Not at first. When she kisses him, it’s like kissing a statue – all coolness, immovable. But she grinds her hips against his a little more insistently, and suddenly the veil drops. He wraps one arm around her waist and another round her neck, and it’s clear how much he wants her.

They scrabble like they do when they fight. She likes a challenge, so she breaks the kiss and shoves him back towards the table. His back bumps against the edge of it, still facing her. He tugs her closer, in the space between his legs, and laps his tongue back into her mouth. For a while, it’s just the sensation of hands and lips and a pleasure from his kisses that send a thrill shooting straight up Rey’s spine. She can’t help but sigh. 

“I thought you had a lesson for me, Sanders,” he says, in-between nibbling at her neck and working on the buttons at the back of her dress.

“Lesson number one, don’t talk so much,” she replies, loosening his tie. 

“But I thought you liked me for my brain as much as my looks.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

The tie goes over his head, and she shoves the peter pan collar of her dress down her shoulders as she continues to kiss him. It’s distracting work, trying to pry his shirt apart while she can feel the hard muscle underneath. But his hands come up to her wrists and still them, and they breathe each other in. 

Solo seems fascinated by the appearance of her practical white brassiere, and licks his lips at the sight of her nipples, which she can feel pebbling under his gaze. When he looks back up at her, he seems determined, and brings her knuckles up to his mouth to kiss them, one at a time. 

“You’re beautiful.” He says. “And strong. And infuriating as hell. You love the strangest food, you have terrible taste in music –”

“What? The Kinks are not awful, they’re brilliant –” 

He kisses her to shut her up.

“You drive me absolutely crazy.” He continues. “But if someone was stupid enough to try and kill me, I wouldn’t want it to be by anyone’s hand. Other than yours.”

“That is sick and twisted, Solo.” 

“It is, Sanders. But isn’t that who we are?”

The worst part is, she understands exactly what he means. And it frees her, knowing that he also sees the absurdity of it, that they’re pawns in this game. But inside this room, they can claim this one thing just for themselves. Even if it’s just for one night.

“So. Show me, then. Who you are.” Rey says.

He places her hands back down with care, and pushes her backwards away from the table, just slightly. He doesn’t break eye contact as he unbuttons the rest of his shirt, and drops it to the ground.

The scars. Rey knows, in principle, that they’re there. To see it is different. She catalogues the ones she knows: the bullet wound he must have sewn up himself after their altercation on the rooftops of Paris. The nick where she dug her dagger into his chest at the medical hall in Malacca. There are more etched all across his ribs, his torso. Marks of sacrifice for their commitment to the business. 

She has her fair share, too. But perhaps in that way, they understand each other.

“Come here.” She says.

He pushes off the table, and steps closer. Kisses her forehead. Pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Teach me how to make you feel good.” He whispers. 

She nods. And he does.

##

Rey has never felt quite like this. Solo’s on his knees in front of her where she sits, licking at her clit with laser-focused intensity as his fingers work magic in her cunt. Rey’s legs already ache a little from spreading so wide, and she should feel embarrassed. But she doesn’t, because all she’s focused on is the pleasure that’s building at the back of her skull, and how right this feels.

He goes still for a moment, and she whines. 

“This the kind of lesson you had in mind?” He asks, wiping his mouth with a glint in his eye.

“You’re a bastard, did you know that?”

His fingers resume their stroking inside her, and she clenches. Hard.

“Why, is this not good enough for you?” 

“I suppose it is acceptable.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Acceptable?”

“Yes. Above average”

“Well then, I’ll have to try harder,” he says, increasing his pace. 

The worst part is that Rey really doesn’t have a comeback to that, because she is two fingers full of him at the moment, and she feels like her brain is about to combust. But he moves his other hand up to circle her clit – and the bastard, the absolute bastard – leans forward to take one of her nipples in his mouth, and sucks on it. 

She comes with a sudden cry, and he’s gentle with her as she rides it out. He whispers in her ear – soothing words and promises for what he’s going to do next, which send wetness straight between her legs as she shivers through the aftershocks. 

“Big man.” She says, a little breathless. “Must be tired from all that kneeling. Shall we rebalance the scales?”

She sits up and yanks him closer. Then she yelps, because he grabs her, somehow manages to scoop her up from the chair, and deposits her – bare arse and all – onto the surface of the poker table in one smooth motion. He makes room for her, sweeping a handful of cards and poker chips to the floor with one arc of his arm. 

Then, they’re staring at each other. His hands, huge, encircle the entirety of her waist at her lower back, and hers hover at the waistband of his trousers. Rey isn’t a small woman, but he looms so large over her. And it makes her shiver, knowing that she has power over this man. It’s like knowing the soft spot to poke on the underbelly of a beast. 

She can feel his erection hard and twitching through the seam of his trousers, and resolves to do something about this very pressing problem. They make quick work getting him out of those, and they’re both suddenly very, very naked and still very, very aroused.

Rey takes a moment to enjoy this view. He’s flushed and breathing heavily, but he’s not rushing this. She looks down – beneath the thatch of hair at his stomach, below the slender V of his hips, is Ben’s cock. And just like the rest of him, it’s enormous. She sends a small prayer of thanks to whichever deity had the foresight to make him so blessedly proportionate all over. 

“I’m feeling like we’ve lost track of the lesson, Miss Sanders.” He says. 

Her nipples tighten, and she starts touching herself there. 

“Why, enjoying yourself too much?”

“Just taking in the view.” He says, eyes sweeping over her body. 

His gaze sends a thrill through her, and she gets an idea.

“Touch yourself.” She commands.

He does. The rhythm he sets with his own hand is relentless. It surprises her a little, but arouses her, too.

“Are you always this rough with yourself?” She asks. 

“Yes, Rey.”

She freezes for a moment. She’s willing to give him a lot of things, already has, but she won’t give him that. 

“Call me Miss Sanders.”

He nods. Understands immediately. 

“Yes, Miss Sanders.”

“Good. And does it embarrass you, Solo, knowing a girl from nowhere’s bested you four times now?” She’s never done this before, but it feels right. “Does it give you a thrill, watching me run away?”

“Yes, Miss Sanders.”

She pushes herself up on one elbow to massage her clit as he pleasures himself. It gives her a rush, knowing that she isn’t even touching him, but she’s in control. She can tell he’s trying to hold back, because the muscles in his neck tense and he rakes his eyes up and down her body, and the head of his cock is a very angry red.

“Good. Make it hurt, so you’ll remember it was me.”

He moans at that – shuts his eyes, clenches his jaw, and she knows he’s right on the edge. 

“No, wait.” She commands.

He stops. He’s got his cock in a viselike grip and the head glistens. 

“I’d like...to have you now.” She says. “And I’m on the pill. Holdo makes us get tested for a full bill of health every month, so you needn’t worry about that. If that’s what you’re worried about, I mean.”

“I’m not, uh. Worried. But in the interest of full disclosure, likewise.” He says.

When she’s had to bed targets, there isn’t usually this amount of talking. She thinks of it as mechanical, almost. Knowing the sounds she needs to make that will push them over the edge, and usually the men either slump onto her or roll to the side of the bed before her _real_ work begins: the work of extracting their secrets. When Rey beds women, it’s more intimate and as a general rule more pleasurable – because they don’t treat female anatomy like they’re adjusting radio dials. But at the end of the day, Rey still thinks of it as a means to an end.

So it feels strangely precious that they’re doing this. Conversing, negotiating boundaries. It’s a small and intimate part of her brain she hadn’t expected to unspool tonight, but here they are. And he’s letting her call the shots.

The head of his cock throbs against her thigh.

“You know, Sanders, I’d pictured us doing this somewhere more lavish. A hotel room, maybe. We could get to mine in about eight minutes,” he quips.

“We could be at mine in six, and I’m not the pernicious idiot who insisted on a Coliseum view. But you’ll be in a lot more trouble if you’re not inside me in the next thirty seconds.”

He sucks in a breath.

“Okay. But I’m warning you, it might be a tight fit.”

“You are so full of yourself.”

“Yeah, I know. And soon, you’ll be too.”

She tries to swat at his chest, but he clasps her hand, kisses her palm, and soon he’s lined himself up at her entrance and eases himself in. 

_It’s a good thing we did all that earlier_ , Rey thinks, _because he wasn’t joking about his size_. She has to remind herself to relax as he slides in, and the groan that he emits makes her shiver at how good this feels already.

“You’re fucking tight.”

“You’re fucking big.”

He adjusts the angle slightly, and just like that, he bottoms out. It feels instinctive to hold on to his shoulders, which tense and flex under her hands. This close, he smells like sandalwood, bergamot, and sex. It makes her feel a little heady.

She wishes she could find a way to bottle the moment, but there isn’t the luxury of time to figure that out, because he starts moving. He fills her so completely at this angle that she can feel him hit a bundle of nerves deep inside her cunt. It’s slick, and sweaty, and it feels far too intimate to look into his eyes, so she buries her face in his broad chest and clutches at him. He doesn’t object to this, instead murmuring reassurances into her ear: telling her how good she makes him feel, how much he’s wanted this – and the combination of it all is a wave of pleasure she wants to chase, right over the edge. 

“God, I – fuck,” he grinds out. “Did you have any...idea… what torture it was… seeing you in that slip of a dress… talking… to Phasma?”

“Why?” She murmurs, reaching a hand down to keep touching herself. “Jealous?” 

“The things...I think about...when it concerns you. Likely illegal in several countries, or morally questionable... in at least… a few, juris –ah –” 

This gives her an idea.

“Then think about them now. Think about them until you’re ready to come.”

He moans, a gutteral noise that reverberates in her chest. She can feel his back muscles tense under her hand. It’s been so long since she’s been with someone like this, and it feels powerful, buoyant. So she resolves to finish what they started, and clenches down on his cock as he spends himself inside her. And for a minute, all she sees is stars, and all she knows is the feeling of them both, coming undone. 

##

 _  
_ _So, what is the protocol for bedding your sworn enemy during a temporary truce?_ Rey wonders, once she starts gathering her wits again.

Solo had kissed her, pulled out, and used his abandoned tie in an attempt to help clean her up. 

He doesn’t manage to get it all. She thinks it’s a little sordid, knowing that she’ll walk out of here in her dress with traces of him still dripping down her thighs.

She likes it.

“Is this how it’s always going to be between us?” He asks. He’s behind her, half-dressed, and his fingers brush against her neck as he works some of the hair out from beneath her collar. 

“I thought you enjoyed our cat and mouse games, Agent Solo.”

He’s quiet behind her as he strokes her hair. The next thing he says is soft, in her ear. 

“Come with me. When this is all over. Please.”

She goes very still. A thousand possibilities that she hadn’t dared to dream of before tonight flit through her mind: leaving the Service, disappearing, building a life with a white picket fence and this Sequoia of a man who really had no real right to take up so much space in her thoughts. 

It would be nice, she thinks. Maybe she will find work at a local university, and he will awe all the other wives with his European sartorial sensibilities. Maybe she could learn to bake pie. They’d make love all over the house on weekend afternoons, and there might even be babies. 

But she knows that isn’t her destiny. Not yet. Not when there are files to collect at the front desk, instructions to follow, and a war – of which there might not be real victors, but one they have to fight. In their own ways.

She turns around, and gives him a tight smile. And that’s how he knows, without words, what her answer is. 

“The Ace of Spades.” Rey says.

He papers his disappointment over with confusion. 

“The Ace of Spades. You had it, Solo. Give it to me.”

“Ha.” He rebuttons his cufflinks. “Why would I do that?” 

“Because it belongs to me.”

“Does it? I think we’ll have to work on your aggression issues and inability to share.”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you.”

“I’m not the one who sent five men to the hospital over a bowl of linguine on Monday.”

“No, _you_ just prefer leaving the bodies in plain sight for someone else to deal with.”

“Touché, Sanders.” He says, tucking his suit jacket under his arm. “And I’m keeping it, by the way. Gives me something to look forward to.”

She doesn’t quite understand what he means, but he’s already moved on – he’s straightening out some of the things on the table, and she knows they need to get going. They’ve already been lucky that nobody’s knocked on the door. That, or whoever walked past heard the commotion inside, and decided it was best to leave it.

Wise.

“Just so you know, Solo. Nothing’s changed, yeah?”

Solo balls up his utterly ruined tie, and shoves it in his pocket. 

“No. Maybe not.”

Solo gestures at the door. Somehow, she realises, he’s always given her a head start. 

“After you. I’ll wait a few minutes before I go.”

A beat passes between them. And she wishes – she so wishes – that they had met in a different life. One that’s less complicated, one where they’re more whole. 

But the hand they’ve been dealt is the hand that they’ve got. So there’s nothing else to do, but to keep going.

Before she does, though, Rey picks up her purse. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek. When she pulls away, there’s surprise in his eyes. And a steely determination there, too. It isn’t much, but it feels like a promise. For Rey, that feels good enough.

She turns to leave, without another word. The doorknob’s cool in her hand as she makes one more decision. 

“Oh, and Solo?”

He turns from where he is looking down at the table.

“You can call me Rey.” She smiles. “Just Rey.” 

It feels like a gift and a declaration, all at once. She tucks the knowledge of it deep in her heart, and she walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had a 60s/Man from UNCLE AU kicking around my head forever, so this great song prompt was the push I needed to attempt it. 
> 
> Kudos, comments, and concrit are always appreciated!
> 
> Fink = 60s term for tattletale
> 
> Hong Kong was under colonial control in the 60s and was a pretty rough and tumble place, especially in [Kowloon City](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kowloon_Walled_City). People of Chinese/East Asian origin were barred from holding high-ranking governmental positions. My grandmother, from Guangzhou, would have been a brilliant businesswoman if she had the education and the opportunity. So Rose here is a tribute to the women of that era.
> 
> There were Black men in intelligence agencies like the CIA during the 1960s, but it was [pretty rare](https://www.cia.gov/news-information/featured-story-archive/2014-featured-story-archive/remembering-cias-african-american-heroes.html). I'm sure Finn would have had conflicting feelings about it, as some of them were asked to infiltrate Black organisations like the Panthers at the time.
> 
> [Century House](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Century_House,_London) was the London HQ of MI6 from 1964 until the 90s. Rey would probably have just relocated there from the even older premises at 54 Broadway.
> 
> It would've been cool to delve more into all this, but it wouldn't fit in what was supposed to be a smutty oneshot 😅
> 
> Finally, I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bobaheadshark). Come say hello 🙂
> 
> And check out the other great works in the [Reylo Jukebox](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/reylojukeboxexchange/works) collection!


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